


Prodigal's Return

by PR Zed (przed)



Series: Das Vadanya Tovarishch [2]
Category: Man From U.N.C.L.E.
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-03
Updated: 2012-08-03
Packaged: 2017-11-11 07:50:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/476260
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/przed/pseuds/PR%20Zed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As Illya tries to start a new life, an enemy from his past catches up with him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Prodigal's Return

_August, 1972_

Illya Kuryakin put the last piece of clothing in his suitcase and snapped it shut. Stepping back, he surveyed the small cabin that had been his haven for the last five months. He made sure that there was nothing he was leaving behind, nothing he needed. Bare walls and empty cupboards stared back at him. 

He turned to his suitcase and the knapsack that sat beside it. It was, he reflected, a little sad that he could now fit all his worldly belongings into the two battered and worn pieces of luggage. He'd had more with him when he arrived in New York all those years ago. 

But this time he'd truly been on the run and hadn't had the luxury of packing any of the material possessions he'd accumulated during his time in the West. It would have been impossible to hide such preparations from Napoleon and it had been imperative that Napoleon suspect nothing. As a result, Illya had taken only what he could pack into the small suitcase and knapsack, only his essential clothes and toiletries. And his gun. 

And one other thing. He had foolishly brought the slim volume of Chekhov short stories that had been Napoleon's Christmas gift to him years ago. It was his only memento of his time with Napoleon, the only thing to remind him of the last seven years of his life. He cursed his sentimentality, but he had not been able to abandon it. 

He wondered what Napoleon had done with all his other belongings: his records and books and clothes. Had he thrown them out? Burned them in the fireplace? Or had he packed everything up in boxes and put it in storage? 

No matter. It didn't bear thinking on. 

He pulled on the knapsack and hefted the suitcase in one hand, then set off down the path that led to the main road. 

It took him an hour to reach the road, and even in the cool early morning air of a Finnish late summer, he was sweating a bit when he reached it. He shrugged out of his jacket and wiped his forehead with a bandana. Since there was no sign of his ride yet, he sat on a nearby rock and prepared to wait. 

A scrap of paper in the pocket of his jacket attracted his attention, and he pulled it out to read. It was a letter from the president of the University of Wisconsin, his new employer, informing him of his office assignment for the coming term and the date of the next faculty meeting for his department. From the tone of the letter, it was clear that the president was irked that his new physics professor had not yet appeared on campus and had been so ill-mannered as to miss three faculty meetings. The man also went to pains to make clear that Illya's position as a former member of U.N.C.L.E. would earn him no special treatment. It seemed that bureaucracy was the same no matter where it was: in the Soviet Union, the Command, or a midwestern university. 

He wondered whether the animosity this man he had yet to meet so clearly felt toward him stemmed from the fact that Waverly had pulled strings to get Illya this job, that Illya was Russian, or just because Illya wasn't following the rules. He was willing to bet that it was probably a combination of all three reasons. Not that it mattered. Illya had received a hazing from the toughest agents in the Command when he'd first arrived in New York. He imagined he could survive the displeasure of an academic. 

He put his hand back into his pocket and pulled out the other object to be found there: a key with a paper tag tied to it. He read the address on the tag, and wondered what 223 South Mills Street looked like. He had left it to Waverly's contacts to find him a place to live. He knew the house was close to campus, but nothing else. 

He was putting the letter and key back in his pocket when he heard a vehicle approaching. He faded back into the trees and pulled the gun from his holster, preparing in case this was an enemy who had tracked him down and not the friend he was expecting. There was virtually no chance that it was an innocent stranger. Andris Cirulis had chosen this spot because it was the only cabin on an isolated lake. Illya had seen no other person, except his friend, in the months he had been here. 

A beat-up truck that Illya had not seen before pulled into view. He still couldn't see the driver, so he pulled back the hammer of his gun and steadied his aim. 

The truck stopped at the appointed place and a gruff sandy-haired man got out. 

"Illya Nickovetch," Andris Cirulis said, shaking his head, "don't tell me you're late." 

"Never," Illya answered in Latvian and stepped out into full view. He did not yet holster his gun, though he had put the safety back on as soon as he had recognized Andris. "You came alone?" 

"Of course." Andris knew the game well enough not to look affronted. "My men think I'm out picking up a shipment." 

"You are, after a fashion," Illya said, smiling. "Just not the kind of shipment they think." 

Andris looked pointedly at Illya's gun. 

"Are you going to put that away?" 

Illya gave a sheepish shrug and returned the gun to his holster. 

Andris hefted Illya's suitcase into the back of the truck while Illya kept his backpack with him. 

"Is this all you have?" Andris asked. 

Illya nodded. 

Andris didn't comment on the paucity of belongings, but simply got into the truck's cab and started the engine. Always thankful for his friend's matter-of-fact manner, Illya took the passenger seat and they were off. 

They spent the three-hour drive into Helsinki discussing inconsequential things. Illya talked of the walks he had taken, the wildlife he had seen, the mushrooms he had picked. Andris shared amusing anecdotes of his latest exploits. He'd been venturing into Latvia more frequently lately, having found a border guard who was both friendly and susceptible to bribes. 

They did not speak at all of the reason Illya had hidden himself in Finland, and Andris only brought up Illya's departure once. 

"Where are you going now?" Andris asked. 

Illya paused briefly before answering, but then gave the only answer that he could. 

"To London first. But after that, it's better that you don't know." 

"The foolish boy doesn't realize when people are worried about him," Andris growled. 

"And his foolish friend doesn't realize when it's dangerous for him to know too much." 

"In my business, I can never know too much." 

"In my business, I can," Illya answered, just a bit sadly. 

There could be no changing either of their minds, and they spent several long minutes in sullen silence, before Andris' usual affability took over and they once again fell into easy conversation. But the incident had been a reminder to Illya that he must stay alert, guard himself against the little slips that might be used against his friends. 

They entered Helsinki just after nine, as the morning traffic was beginning to ease. Illya was surprised at how foreign the bustle of a city seemed after so many months alone. If he'd been less committed to the path he had chosen, he might have asked Andris to turn around and take him back to the cabin. But that would leave Andris vulnerable and Illya wouldn't have that. 

Andris pulled the truck into the departures parking lot at the Vantaa airport. Before they left the truck, Illya had one last thing to do. He slipped off the holster that he had worn for so many years and tried to hand it and the gun in it to Andris. 

"I trust you can find a good home for this." 

Andris shook his head and put his hand up to refuse the weapon. 

"You shouldn't go unarmed." 

"I can't carry a gun on a plane anymore. I'm a civilian, a respectable university professor." 

Andris gave a short bark of laughter. 

"And I'm a respectable businessman." He shook his head. "I can't take it. It doesn't seem right." 

"I give it to you or I throw it in that waste bin over there. Your choice." 

Andris made one last try. 

"I could show you how to smuggle it on the plane." 

"I know how to smuggle it on. I don't want to smuggle it on. I want you to have it." 

"What would a Latvian smuggler living in Finland do with an U.N.C.L.E. Special?" 

"I don't care." Illya threw the weapon into his friend's lap in frustration. "Keep it. Sell it. Put flowers in the barrel. Just take it." 

Andris picked up the gun with equal parts respect and disquiet. 

"Well, it seems I'm the reluctant owner of a Command gun. What would Mr. Waverly say?" 

"Why don't you call him up and ask him?" 

"I may just do that some day." 

Andris lifted Illya's suitcase out of the back of the truck. Illya slung the pack on his back, then took the suitcase from Andris. 

"You shouldn't come in with me. It might cause problems for you if someone recognizes me." 

Andris nodded in reluctant agreement, then engulfed Illya in a gruff bear hug. 

"Godspeed, Illya Nickovetch." 

"I doubt that god cares much about my journey, if he even exists." 

Andris merely growled at him and gave him a light swat on the arm. 

"Thank you, Andris. For everything." 

"I take care of my friends. Just you take care of yourself." 

Illya gave one final wave, and then made his way into the terminal. He deliberately did not look back. Andris was one more friend lost to him now. There would be no need for a respectable university professor to have any contact with a Latvian smuggler and patriot. 

He made his way to the Finnair ticket desk. On the way he fumbled to put on his glasses, and pulled the passport he was using out of his coat pocket. For this trip, and this trip only, he was to be Andrew Collins, British citizen, on his way back from a long hiking holiday. 

He paid for a ticket to London with cash, dazzling the ticket agent with the deliberately shy smile that had served him so well over the years. She was flattered and accommodating and never once stopped to think why a British tourist was carrying such a large quantity of cash and could speak nearly flawless Finnish. 

Ticket purchased, boarding pass in hand, Illya headed for his gate. 

He slowed as he approached the customs agent, his neck prickling with the distinct feeling that he was being watched. He stopped and cast an appraising eye around the departures hall, looking for a familiar face. Or a threat. 

But there was neither, only the usual combination of eager and tired-looking travellers. He shrugged off the feeling of foreboding that threatened to take hold of him, convinced that it was only his unease at being around people again. Hefting his knapsack onto his shoulder, he took his first steps on his way back to the United States. 

* * *

Tyko Vatanen was exhausted and frustrated and dreading the flight back to Madrid. He hated the city that Thrush had assigned him to--its bustle, its architecture, its people. It was all so different from the clean lines and green spaces of Helsinki. And the Spaniards were crazy. His countrymen were also crazy, but in a much more relaxed way. 

He had enjoyed the week he had spent in his home city, performing a minor security function at the now rebuilt Satrapy, but the brief respite almost made the return to Madrid worse. It had provided him with a reminder of exactly what he was missing. 

He was so distracted that he nearly overlooked the blond man checking his meagre luggage at the Finnair counter. Nearly, but not quite. 

Illya Kuryakin was not a man he was ever going to forget. 

Kuryakin and Napoleon Solo had infiltrated and destroyed the Helsinki Satrapy two years before, killing many of its employees and scattering even more to the far corners of Europe and the world. Matti had died in that raid, the raid that had resulted in Vatanen being banished to Madrid. He had sworn to kill Kuryakin and his partner, and now fate had delivered Kuryakin to him. 

Vatanen was overcome with a rage so intense that he deliberately made himself stop and sit down. Such emotion would not help him. He must hoard his anger, bank the fire until he was ready to unleash its flames. 

He remained seated until Kuryakin had finished checking in and vanished through the gates, until his own anger was under control. Then, putting on the most cheerful face he could muster, he went to work. 

Smiling, he approached the Finnair ticket desk. 

"Excuse me," he asked in Finnish, "I believe I just saw a friend of mine here. A blond man. A bit short, with glasses?" He gave the girl a winning smile. 

"Ah, Mr. Collins." 

Of course, Kuryakin would not be travelling under his own name. 

"Yes, that's him. We met at school in Cambridge." 

"Such a nice man." The girl wore that simpering grin that Kuryakin seemed to inspire in all women. Vatanen swallowed his rage and played his mark. 

"Yes, he is. It would be so nice to go over old times. I was wondering, could you tell me what flight he's on?" He did his best to look completely harmless. 

"I'm not supposed to give out that information," she said, clearly parroting company policy. 

"Of course not," he said, infusing his voice with disappointment. "And I wouldn't ask, except that we haven't seen each other for years." 

"Well, I suppose it couldn't hurt." The girl quickly glanced around her before checking her records. "He's on flight 590 to London. You might even be able to catch him in the waiting area. The flight doesn't leave for over an hour." 

"Thank you so much. You don't know how much this means to me." 

"You're welcome," she said, then went quickly on to serve the next customer. 

Vatanen walked over to the departure boards and checked all the outgoing flights. He found a British Airways flight to London leaving within the half hour and arriving well before Kuryakin's. 

He took the hated ticket to Madrid from his breast pocket, crumpled it in his hand and dropped it into a nearby waste bin. 

"Pleasure before business," he whispered to himself, then headed over to the British Airways counter. He would avenge himself upon Kuryakin and put Matti's memory to rest. And who knew? With a little luck, this particular pleasure might even earn him a well-deserved promotion. 

* * *

Illya's flight from Helsinki to London passed uneventfully, and for that he was grateful. The plane was full of taciturn businessmen intent on reading their morning papers or stock prospectuses or just sleeping until they arrived in London. 

At Heathrow he changed terminals, airlines and identities. He checked in at the TWA desk under his own name, reluctantly tucking the forged British passport into his breast pocket alongside those of his two other, equally false identities--one German and one Canadian. He felt strangely exposed, travelling as himself, but thought it would be a bad beginning to arrive back in his adopted home country under a name that was not his own. 

Since he had nearly three hours between flights, he spent his time window shopping in duty-free shops, and being astounded at the useless perfume and jewellery that apparently rational people were willing to spend vast sums of money on. When the entertainment value of capitalistic excess began to pale, he picked up three novels in W.H. Smith and headed to his gate. He quickly abandoned the le CarrÈ as far too depressing and the James Bond as too ridiculous, but settled nicely into the inane world of Jacqueline Susann, although he suspected most readers didn't find her the comic mastermind that he did. 

When his flight was finally called, he was more than ready to board. 

He had a moment's unease as he was taking his seat, convinced that there was something, or someone, he should have recognized, but a surreptitious examination of his fellow passengers revealed only the usual assortment of middle-aged tourists, business travellers and university students no doubt returning from Europe after having ëfound themselves.' 

He eyed the empty seats beside him, kindling a brief hope that he would have the row to himself. That hope was dashed with the appearance of a matronly woman with an exhausted-looking husband in tow. The man took the aisle, while the woman sat beside Illya. She gave him a wide smile as she settled in. Illya returned the smile with a curt nod that was only barely polite, hoping to discourage conversation. His incivility was cheerfully ignored by the woman. By the time the plane took off, Illya was sure he'd heard the entire life story of Mrs. Edna Edwards of Janesville, Illinois and would perhaps have some peace for the remainder of the flight. That proved a false hope, as she continued to engage in a monologue about their travels in England to visit their daughter, who'd fled from Janesville to seek her fortune in London, the biography of her husband, daughter and extended brood, and her observations about Europeans in general. 

Illya supposed he could have cut her off with a ruthless display of ill manners, but she wasn't a bad sort. Instead, he contented himself with exchanging sympathetic looks with the no doubt, long-suffering Mr. Edwards, and drifting into the fugue state he had cultivated when on particularly long and boring observation missions. 

At least Mrs. Edwards distracted him from his own concerns. He didn't think about U.N.C.L.E. or Napoleon at all, or at least not much, until the coast of North America came into view. Flying over New York City at 30,000 feet, however, he couldn't help but think of Napoleon, and wonder what he was up to on this summer day. He only allowed himself a few brief minutes of such indulgence, before wrenching his thoughts back to his future. He would be a professor, he would teach his students and write research papers and he would never, ever think about New York or U.N.C.L.E. Or Napoleon.  
  


Even a nine-hour flight hadn't exhausted Mrs. Edwards' store of anecdotes. When the plane landed in Chicago, she was still going strong. Illya found himself invited to visit the whole Edwards family in Janesville. Illya made polite noises, shook Mr. Edwards' hand and made his quiet escape. 

The universe decided to throw luck his way for once and his battered suitcase was the first off the carousel. He grabbed it quickly and stopped to consider his next step. It was getting late, and the flight had exhausted him in a way that mere physical activity never seemed to, but he was reluctant to sleep in an airport hotel. He'd seen enough of sterile hotel rooms over the years, and wanted the comfort of his own house, even if that house was rented and half-empty. Decision made, he headed for the car rental kiosks in the departure area. 

There didn't seem to many takers for cars at this time of night. The rental place he chose was deserted when he arrived, with only one tired-looking clerk talking on the phone. While he was waiting for service, one other traveller arrived, another European by his clothes and accent. They traded polite nods while the clerk talked to an unseen caller about deductibles and tow trucks. By the time the call was finished, he and the other man, a Finn who had happened to be on the same flight as Illya, had begun to trade stories of absurd American drivers in Europe. 

The clerk dealt with both their requests efficiently and asked them if they minded sharing a shuttle to their cars, a request they both assented to. Illya spent a contented few minutes trading small talk with his fellow traveller. 

The Finn was dropped off at his car, an LTD, first. Illya was dropped at his own car, an Impala, last. He threw his bags in the trunk, his jacket in the back seat, and then took the driver's seat. For one long minute, he simply sat, key in the ignition, hands on the wheel. It had been months since he'd driven a car, and it felt odd. Finally, shaking his head in disgust, he started up the engine. Navigating his way through the tangle of freeways that surrounded O'Hare, he found his way onto the road to Madison and his new home. 

* * *

Tyko Vatanen waited in the car rental lot for a minute after his target had left before pulling out himself. He was ridiculously pleased with himself for getting so close to Kuryakin without tipping the man off to the danger he was in. It was strictly amateur, of course--a professional knew to keep his distance from a man he intended to assassinateóbut Vatanen didn't care. He wanted to enjoy this moment, to toy with his prey before it even knew it was prey. 

He had, however, been hoping to get more information from Kuryakin than he did. Even with his guard down and expecting no danger, the U.N.C.L.E. agent gave away very little about himself. Vatanen had gotten the vague impression that he was going to be teaching science somewhere in Illinois or the surrounding states, but that was all. Vatanen wondered briefly what a Command agent was doing teaching, but assumed it must be an undercover assignment. 

He kept his distance from Kuryakin on the freeway, smiling in satisfaction as the man took the northern route that headed to Wisconsin. That narrowed things somewhat, but there still must be a large number of schools in this midwest state. He needed to stay close to Kuryakin and wait for his opportunity. Even wily, experienced spies made the occasional mistake, left the occasional opening for disaster. 

Kuryakin made his mistake a half-hour after leaving the Chicago city limits. 

The U.N.C.L.E. agent pulled into a gas station and diner on the side of the road. Vatanen noted with amusement that the Illinois authorities had designated the place as an ëoasis.' Kuryakin spurned the gas tanksóhis would be as full as Vatanen's ownóbut headed into the diner. Watching from his car, Vatanen saw Kuryakin sit at the counter and order food. He waited until Kuryakin's burger had been delivered to his table, then set about his work. 

He wandered over to Kuryakin's car, pulling a small device out of his pocket as he did. The mechanism, which fit easily in the palm of his hand, held explosives and a timer. The bomb wouldn't do too much damage on a large scale, but was powerful enough to put a lethal hole in an enemy's body. Or to damage his car. 

Making sure he was not observed, Vatanen set the timer for half an hour, and then slipped quickly under Kuryakin's car. He attached the explosives to a bundle of wires that fed the electrical system, before standing quickly and brushing the gravel from his clothes. His task accomplished, he strolled leisurely back to his own car and watched as Kuryakin finished the last of his food and paid his bill. Vatanen slid down in his seat as Kuryakin came out into the parking lot and headed to his own car. He waited till he heard the sound of Kuryakin's engine starting up and moving off into the distance before sitting up fully again. Then he checked his watch and went into the diner himself to have a cup of coffee. 

He would wait fifteen minutes and then head after his quarry. It would be full dark by then, and Kuryakin would be stopped by the side of a near-empty highway with a broken down car. Even if he called for help on his communicator, no one would get to him before Vatanen had shot him and left him dead on the side of the highway. 

It was going to be a good night. But not for Illya Kuryakin. 

* * *

It had been perhaps half an hour since he had stopped at the oasis when the trouble started. The sun had completely set, and Illya was driving in the dark through the flat farm county that dominated this area. He had the sneaking feeling that at night, he was seeing the landscape at its best. 

Without warning, there was a sudden popping sound from under the hood of the car and the electrical systems and engine shut off completely. Now completely in the dark, without even the glow from the dashboard or the yellow of his headlights, he coasted onto the shoulder of the road. Clutching the steering wheel, he cursed the car, its maker, and the hapless woman who had rented it to him. And then he got out to see if he could fix the problem. 

He popped the hood open, and poked around, but it was difficult to determine the problem without a flashlight, or even a match. Near total darkness wasn't a great assistance to automotive repair. 

He stared down the road in both directions, hoping for a car he could flag down for assistance, but saw no one. The road had been unusually deserted for most of his trip, so he wasn't surprised. He turned back to the engine and tried to reason out his solution. Clearly, the electrical system was the problem, so if he systematically checked all parts of the wiring, he should be able to get the car back on the road soon. He hoped. 

Calling up a mental map of where the distributor cap and alternator should be, Illya began the painstaking job of finding the problem. 

After ten minutes he was grimy and frustrated and ready to either wait for rescue or to walk to the next town and rouse a mechanic. He rested his hands on the front of the car and stared fruitlessly into the black pit that held the engine, wishing he had just a single flashlight. 

He was nearly ready to kick the tires and start walking when he heard a car coming towards him. He moved to the back of the car, and waved his arms, hoping that the driver would be willing to play good Samaritan and at least drive him to the next town. 

His hopes rose when the car began to slow and pulled up behind his. Illya ran back, confident his luck was turning at last. 

The driver stepped out of the car, and in glare of the headlights, Illya could see it was the man he'd met at the car rental office. He smiled in recognition. 

Then he saw the gun. 

The man clutched a Tokarev in his right hand. It was an ugly looking weapon, but it would kill him as efficiently as any other. Illya briefly contemplated running, but knew that even in the uneven light of the headlights, the man could not miss at this range. Instead, he moved forward to meet his enemy, hands slightly raised. 

"Is there a problem?" He tried to sound as inoffensive as possible. 

"I'm afraid your continued existence is a problem, Mr. Kuryakin." The man's voice was cool and even. 

"Thrush," Illya said, a cold pit forming in his stomach. 

"You're very observant." 

"It wasn't a difficult conclusion to reach." He carefully examined the manóhis fashionably tailored suit and his hard, determined stareótrying, and failing, to remember where he'd seen him before. "I'm not in the Command anymore, if that matters to you." 

"Not in the least." The man smiled. 

"You won't get much credit for assassinating a former U.N.C.L.E. agent." 

"You underestimate your importance, Mr. Kuryakin." The man smiled, a thin, cold expression. "And in any case, this has nothing to do with my hopes of promotion." 

"Revenge?" 

"Again, I congratulate you on your insight." 

Illya looked closely at the man, trying to place him, and failed utterly. He hated to die without knowing the reason. 

"May I ask what for?" Illya asked. 

The man's eyes hardened further and his mouth lost all trace of a smile. 

"Do you remember the raid on the Helsinki Satrapy, several years ago?" 

Illya remembered the operation, but only vaguely. It had been a minor raid on a minor installation. He did not share this fact with his feathered friend. 

"Yes," he said, nodding. 

"You killed a young man during that raid. Matti Ketola." The man tightened his grip on the gun. "He was my friend." 

Illya kept his face impassive, but flinched internally. He didn't often allow himself to think of Thrush foot soldiers as having loyalties. Or friends. 

"Aren't you going to beg for your life? To apologize?" 

"He was an enemy. He knew what the stakes were." 

"He was a boy." The man spat the words out. "He didn't realize the game he was playing was deadly." 

"Then he shouldn't have been playing." 

Illya felt the butt of the Tokarev connect with his jaw before he registered that the man had moved. He would have a bruise tomorrow. If he survived this night. 

"Don't you dare speak of him that way." The man's anger could be heard in the ragged edge of his voice, but his gaze didn't waver and neither did his hand. 

"So, you mean to kill me in cold blood." 

"As you did Matti. Would you do any differently if I had killed Mr. Slate? Or Mr. Solo?" 

"U.N.C.L.E. does not condone personal vendettas," Illya said coolly. 

"Then you're foolish for giving it your allegiance." 

Illya's hope began to fade. He couldn't see a way to bait his opponent into a mistake, and Illya was certain the man would pull the trigger if he so much as moved. He began to curse himself for having given his own weapon to Andris. 

And then he saw the flicker of a chance. 

No other cars had passed them, but Illya saw the lights of a truck coming towards them. His captor had his back to the oncoming traffic and hadn't yet seen it. Illya relaxed and prepared to act. He just needed to keep this would-be assassin talking for a few more seconds. 

"Can I at least know the name of my killer?" 

"Tyko Vatanen," the man said grimly. "Take the name to hell with you." 

Vatanen cocked his gun and prepared to pull the trigger. And just then the transport swept passed them with a roar. 

Vatanen was thrown slightly off balance by the wind generated by the truck's passing. Illya used the slight advantage and kicked out at his gun hand, knocking the weapon into the road. Before Vatanen could recover the gun, Illya leapt into the ditch, and jumped a fence into a cornfield. He knew that the darkness and the towering cornstalks would swallow him after he had run no more than a few steps. He just needed to stay ahead of his pursuer. 

He ran blindly, leaves slapping him in the face as he constantly switched rows. He heard the sound of Vatanen entering the field behind him, and increased his pace. Seeing a glimmer of light to his left, he headed toward it. 

The light was from a farmhouse, the golden glow of the lamps from what must be the family's living room. He slowed as he approached, keeping an eye out for dogs that might give his position away. 

He debated, briefly, knocking on the door of the house to request help, but abandoned the idea just as quickly. He was a dishevelled-looking stranger with a foreign accent; the occupants of this house would have no reason to help him. And he might end up bringing them danger. No, he would have to help himself. 

His gaze swept across the yard surrounding the house. There were two vehicles: an ancient truck and a slightly newer-looking sedan. He headed toward the sedan, quietly opened its unlocked door and took his seat inside. A quick examination revealed the keys stored in the glove box. He thanked the trusting nature of good farm folk everywhere, and placed the key in the ignition. Taking one last look around to make sure he hadn't been discovered, he inhaled deeply, and turned the key. 

The car sprang to life. Wasting no time, he shifted gears and pulled out onto the dirt road that fronted the house. He heard yelling behind him, but didn't look back to see if it was Vatanen or the family that was his unwitting benefactor. He simply pointed the car north and pushed the accelerator to the floor. 

* * *

Vatanen cursed when he heard the car roaring off down the country road. He made it to the border of the cornfield only to see the taillights of Kuryakin's pilfered car fade into the distance. As he stood in the darkness, trying to decide whether to go forward or return to his own car, the decision was made for him. The inhabitants of the farmhouse poured out, indignant at the theft of their vehicle. Though he wasn't adverse to a little mayhem in a good cause, Vatanen had no desire for unwanted notice. Not when he was so close to achieving his revenge. He faded back into the cornfield as silently as he could and returned quickly to the road. 

Once there, he realized that Kuryakin's rented car might provide him with clues as to where the man might be heading. 

He popped open the trunk and sorted through the meagre contents of the suitcase and knapsack he found there. They revealed nothing, except the dearth of the Russian's possessions. Nothing but a few well worn, and well cared for clothes and a slim book in Russian. Vatanen slammed the trunk closed and looked in the car itself. The glove compartment contained only an owner's manual and rental agreement. In the back seat he found a frayed jacket. He nearly ignored the garment, but searched its pockets out of habit. 

And found what he was looking for. 

In a crumpled envelope in the jacket's breast pocket, he found a letter from the president of the University of Wisconsin-Madison, encouraging Professor Illya Kuryakin to be present for the next faculty meeting, and informing him which office had been assigned to him in Sterling Hall. 

It would seem that Illya Kuryakin was indeed out of U.N.C.L.E. And into the fire. 

* * *

Illya drove as fast as his stolen car could manage, through back roads and older highways. He did not dare take the main highway. Vatanen had been on that road and was likely to remain on it. 

Vatanen. He didn't think he had ever heard that name before. Or that of Matti Ketola. He was being hunted for the death of someone he couldn't even remember. 

He had to stop several times and refer to the battered map he'd found in the glove box, but managed to find his way to the outskirts of Madison. The whole way he kept alert for the LTD that Vatanen had been driving, but it had not made an appearance. With any luck at all, it never would. 

Crossing the causeway that stretched across the end of Lake Monona, he nearly forgot his problems. From this angle the city looked much prettier than he had expected, with the lights of downtown and the State Capital reflected on the surface of the lake. He suspected that daylight would not be as kind to this place. 

He headed toward the campus, not with any plan in mind, but because he didn't have any other place to go. He wasn't entirely sure what he should do. He was reluctant to involve the police. Not only did he suspect that they would be ill-equipped to deal with a ruthless Thrush operative bent on revenge, but he himself was driving a stolen car. He had no weapon, and no way of getting one. He had nowhere to go. ExceptÖ 

He did have the house he'd rented. And he had been assigned an office in Sterling Hall. The house couldn't offer much protection, but Sterling Hall might. Physics labs were far more likely to yield a possible weapon than an empty rented dwelling. 

With the beginnings of a plan, he swung down University Avenue. 

After a couple of false turns, he found the physics building, and pulled around in back of it, parking the car out of sight of the main road. Fortunately, the doors to the building weren't locked. He could have found some other way in, but it would have taken time; he no longer carried lock picks or explosive buttons with him as a matter of course. 

As quietly as he could, he ran up the stairs to the third floor, then turned down a hallway. He picked a door at random and tried the knob. Locked. But this door was less of a challenge than the main doors to the building would have been. He pulled out his credit card and used it to jimmy the lock, and then closed the door softly behind him. He didn't dare risk turning on a light, so he stumbled several times in the dark until his eyes adjusted. It was only when he was sitting at the desk that he realized he had no plan. 

With no weapons, he had to call on someone for help. And with the police ruled out, that left only U.N.C.L.E. But there were few enough people in the Command that he could still count on. 

He didn't want to disturb Waverly with his troubles, not after everything his former boss had already done for him. He couldn't call Napoleon. April was no doubt still furious with him. 

But there was Mark. 

One of the pieces of news Andris had brought to him in the last few months was that Mark and April had returned to work in New York. Mark was likely angry with him as well, but Illya would bet that he was less angry than April. He only hoped he had the right number, and that Mark was home. 

He dialled the number quickly and waited impatiently while the phone rang. There were exactly seventeen rings before a sleepy and irritated voice answered. 

"Slate here, and this better be bloody important." 

"Mark?" Illya said. 

There was a slight pause before Mark responded. 

"Illya, is that you?" 

"Yes, it's..." 

Illya barely had time to even begin his sentence before Mark exploded. 

"What in the bloody hell are you doing calling me? I thought you wanted us all to leave you alone." The bitterness and anger in Mark's voice was crystal clear. Illya forced himself not to wince. 

"I'm in trouble." He knew they had no time for explanations and apologies. Not if he wanted to survive this night. 

"You're what?" 

"In trouble," Illya repeated. "There was an attempt on my life several hours ago by a member of Thrush. I think I've lost him, but I can't be sure. He seems," Illya cast about for the right word, "persistent." 

"Are you okay?" 

"For the moment." 

"Are you armed?" 

"I'm a civilian, Mark. I don't have any weapons." 

"Damn," Mark said quietly. The anger had disappeared from his voice, but there was still a trace of hurt left. "Where are you?" 

Illya took a deep breath before answering. He had been hoping to get away with no one in the Command, except Waverly, knowing where he was. If he told Mark, he would definitely tell April. And they both might decide to ignore his wishes and tell the one person he couldn't afford to know. 

"Illya," Mark prompted. 

"You have to promise not to tell Napoleon." 

"I'll promise to wring your bloody neck the next time I see you." 

"I'm sorry I bothered you," Illya said and started to hang up. 

"Wait," Mark yelled. "I promise, you stubborn Russian. Napoleon would kill me if I let you die." 

"Thank you, Mark," Illya said, relief flooding through him. He did not want to die, but he would have faced death rather than have his former lover come after him. 

"Where are you?" 

"Madison, Wisconsin." Illya looked around the darkened room that surrounded him. "Specifically, Sterling Hall on the university campus." 

"Wisconsin. Somehow I can't see you surrounded by cows and cheese." 

"They needed a physics professor. I needed a job." 

"Wisconsin," Mark said, and Illya could almost see him shaking his head. "Wait 'til April hears about this." 

"You can't tell April." Illya knew this was a futile attempt, but he had to try. 

"Don't be daft. Of course I'll tell April," Mark said shortly. "But I'll make sure she keeps your secret." 

Illya knew that was all he could hope for. 

"Thank you, Mark." 

There was a shuffling of papers before Mark spoke again. 

"We don't have an office in Madison, so I'll have to call our Chicago station. I know their CEA, so we shouldn't have to wait for them to go through official channels to send a rescue party." 

"I would prefer that Mr. Waverly not know. Until later." 

"Hmm, even if they send a team by jet from O'Hare, it will be at least an hour before they can get to your position. Can you hold out that long?" 

"I'll have to," Illya said. 

"I'll call Chicago right away. Give me your number. I'll call back to confirm they're on the way." 

Illya gave Mark the number of the office, then hung up. He spent a tense ten minutes waiting for Mark to call back. When the phone finally rangóan eerie sound in the still, dark officeóhe snatched up the receiver on the first ring. 

"Yes?" 

"They're on the way," Mark said. 

"Was it...difficult?" 

"That's an understatement," Mark said, laughing. "I had to use my not inconsiderable charm to convince them to save your miserable hide." 

"My miserable hide thanks you." 

"You're welcome. And Illya..." 

"Yes?" 

"Do be careful. I'd like to be able to give you a good bollocking in person." 

"Yes, Mark." 

Illya hung up the phone, a smile on his face. Even with all that stood between them, it had been comforting to hear a familiar voice. He only hoped that he would be alive in the morning to face the wrath of Mark Slate.  
  


Illya spent the next fifteen minutes anxiously pacing the appropriated office, carefully checking the window at regular intervals. The streets were quiet, with no cars passing by in the time he kept watch. That wasn't surprising, considering that it was well after midnight on a summer Sunday, and Sterling Hall was on a side street. 

He was just beginning to think that he had lost his pursuer when he heard a car engine. Reflexively, he went to the window, and found himself looking at the very vehicle he had hoped never to see again: the Ford LTD that belonged to his Thrush friend. 

Illya took in a deep breath and prayed to gods he had never believed in for the car to drive on. He wished that he had parked his own pilfered car further away, that he had made for the city's arboretum to hide in. He wished that this all wasn't really happening, that he had been allowed to leave the Command with no problems and no vengeful Thrush hunting him. 

And all this was happening for the sake of a dead man whose face he couldn't even recall. He supposed this was the universe's way of paying him back for all the death he had meted out over the years. 

The LTD continued up the street, and Illya nearly let himself believe that he was going to be safe, that he wouldn't be found by this madman. Then the brake lights came on and the car stopped, sat there, its engine idling. 

At that moment Illya remembered something he should have been thinking about from the beginning: the letter. That insufferable letter from the insufferable president of this academic institution had been in the pocket of his jacket. And the jacket had been left in his rented car when he ran. Vatanen might be obsessed, but he didn't seem stupid. He would have searched the car, and he would have found out where Illya's office was. And when he didn't find him in his own office, he would search the whole building. 

Vatanen could have been listening to Illya's thoughts. The sound of the engine quit and the lights were extinguished. The driver's door opened, and Vatanen got out and looked around. Illya pulled back further into the shadows of the office, even though he was certain he couldn't be seen in the darkness. Vatanen cocked his head, like a hound casting for the scent of a fox, then looked straight at Sterling Hall. Illya cursed in English, then Russian, as the man began to walk towards the building that was his refuge. Illya didn't even wait to make sure that Sterling was in fact the man's destination before he fled the office. There was nothing resembling a weapon in this roomónot so much as a letter openeróand he didn't want to be trapped here while his pursuer searched for him. 

Slipping his shoes off, he ran down the halls to a back stairway, then began to descend. A combination of instinct and reason took him to the sub-basement of the building. Basements were where workmen tended to be found and, more importantly, where they stored their tools. If he could find a crowbar or a hammer or anything that might serve to disarm his opponent, he might last until U.N.C.L.E.'s Chicago office could send in the proverbial cavalry. 

His shoes went back onóthe sound they might make being outweighed by the protection they offered in such an industrial environmentóand he started to make his way quickly but carefully through steam tunnels and storage rooms, all the while keeping an ear out for his pursuer. He had a stroke of luck in one of the tunnels, finding a monkey wrench that had been left out in the open. He said a word of thanks to the careless workmen who had abandoned the tool as he hefted it in his hand. It wouldn't defend him from a gun, but in a hand-to-hand fight, it would give him the edge. He just had to make sure that the fighting was hand-to-hand. 

Since he now had a weapon, he next needed a defensible position. He likely couldn't avoid this man forever, but he could make sure that they met on his terms. He quickly moved through more rooms and tunnels, till he found the perfect location: a niche just inside one of the mechanical rooms. The sound from the machinery was distracting, and the niche was hidden in shadow even with the lights on. Illya smashed the room's only light bulb with his wrench, hoping to increase his advantage. He made sure there was no other entrance to the room, then ensconced himself in his chosen hiding place. There was nothing left to do but wait. And waiting was one thing at which he'd had a lot of practice. 

Half an hour crept by, with Illya holding himself in that frame of mind peculiar to stakeouts: mind wide open to his environment, ready to act on a moment's notice. He was easing a stiff shoulder, wondering if Vatanen would manage to find him, when he heard a slight scraping sound in the hall outside. He froze, listening even more carefully. 

There was another sound, this time clearly a footstep. Illya hefted his wrench and prepared to move. The doorknob of the storage room began to turn. Illya did nothing yet. He needed the element of surprise in his favour. The door opened slowly, allowing a thin wedge of light to trickle in from the hall. The barrel of a gun was pushed into the room, followed by the body of the weapon, and the hand holding it. Illya held his breath and waited for his moment. He wanted Vatanen's defences to drop, if only slightly. 

Ten seconds, twenty, then thirty passed, and Vatanen did not move any further into the room. Illya let a controlled breath out softly, convinced that Vatanen must suspect that he was here. After a minute, the gun moved further into the room, followed by the man himself. 

A burst of adrenaline spiked through Illya's system and he sprang into action. 

Swinging the wrench with all his strength, he struck at Vatanen's wrist, sending the gun spinning across the room and causing the Thrush to clutch his arm. Illya brought the wrench up for a second blow, but this time Vatanen blocked the attack with his good hand. 

They grappled, bringing their combat out into the hallway. Breathing harshly, Illya made use of every bit of experience, every ounce of knowledge that he possessed, to defeat his opponent, but Vatanen was a skilled fighter as well. For every blow Illya blocked, another fell upon him; for every time he threw Vatanen on the floor, the Thrush reversed the tables and pinned him in return. 

Illya felt his own strength beginning to fade and knew that he must end this soon. He took a last big breath, then did what he had to. As Vatanen came at him again, he ducked a blow and then swept out a foot to take his opponent's legs out from under him. Vatanen began to fall, and Illya performed the coup de grace. He twisted Vatanen's head, using the man's own weight as he fell, his neck snapping audibly. Illya stared in the man's eyes as his expression changed from panic, to pain, to hatred, and then to nothing at all as his expression faded to the blankness of death. 

And it was over. 

A silence pervaded where seconds before there had been a flurry of sound and motion. Stunned by the suddenness of it all, Illya's legs began to collapse beneath him and he slid down the wall. He ended up sitting against the concrete, staring at the body of one more man whose death he had caused. 

That was where they found them. 

* * *

It was the kind of night that shaved years from your life. 

A little more than an hour ago, Jack Henry had been finishing up long overdue paperwork and feeling inordinately pleased that the Chicago office he oversaw had seen no injuries, no major incidents and only successes for the last three weeks. 

He should have known it wouldn't last. 

Should have known the night would end badly as soon as the phone had rung after midnight. Should have been suspicious when the person on the other line had been Mark Slate, a friend from the time when they had both been based in the London office. Should have never agreed to do a favour, for old times' sake. 

But it wasn't every day that you were asked to rescue a living legend. 

And among the many things that he was, Illya Nickovetch Kuryakin was a living legend to all U.N.C.L.E. agents. 

The whole Command had been abuzz five months ago when one half of the legendary Solo-Kuryakin team had resigned and disappeared. The rumours had flown fast and furious. The Soviets had reclaimed him. He had defected to Thrush. He had fought with Solo. He had fought with Waverly. He was sick of the trade and resigned in disgust. No explanation had seemed entirely convincing to Henry, and Alexander Waverly himself had put an end to the more ridiculous speculation, sending a tersely worded communiquÈ to all offices that Mr. Kuryakin had submitted a quite official resignation and was now enjoying work as a civilian and would everyone please stop the gossip and get back to work. 

Now Slate had asked Jack Henry to send a team up to Wisconsin and save the civilian Mr. Kuryakin from a member of Thrush bent on revenge. Of course, he had to go himself. His curiosity insisted upon it. 

He called in his partner, Nicholas Hughes, and the one other enforcement agent who was in the office, Janice Davidson, scrambled the plane they had use of at O'Hare, and found themselves, ninety minutes later, outside of Sterling Hall on the UW campus in Madison. 

That there were two campus police cars outside the building made Henry nervous. He didn't like hearing about regular police forces taking on Thrush; he couldn't imagine someone used to dealing with drunken undergrads and the occasional mugging confronting an armed killer. 

At a nod from him, both Nick and Janice pulled their weapons out. Henry did the same and led them inside. 

The sound of yelling drew them towards the back of the building, and into the basement. There they found a sight that Henry suspected none of them could have predicted. 

Illya Kuryakin was backed against a wall by a thin-looking, pinch-faced man who could only have been a bureaucrat. The two of them were surrounded by four campus policemen who seemed both to be trying to calm the bureaucrat and arrest Illya. And on the floor beyond lay the body of one very dead man, his neck clearly broken. 

Jack Henry was too good at his job to let surprise stop him from acting. Flanked by his people, he moved forward and prepared to take charge. 

"Jack Henry, of the U.N.C.L.E." He pulled out his identification, hoping that it would intimidate at least the campus cops. "What's going on here?" 

The campus police did noticeably pull back, leaving it to the man berating Illya to confront him. 

"I should have known that U.N.C.L.E. would be involved in this outrage." The man moved away from Illya and faced down Henry. "I demand that you arrest thisÖmurderer." He pointed a finger in Illya's direction without breaking eye contact with Henry. 

"And who are you, sir?" Henry made sure he was polite, his voice betraying none of the irritation he was beginning to feel towards this man. 

"I am William Andersen, president of the university." 

"Mr. Andersen, I appreciate your concern, but I need to speak with Mr. Kuryakin for a moment." 

Henry didn't wait for a response, but pushed past Andersen and went over to Kuryakin's side. He heard Nick begin to work on calming down the president and Janice start doing damage control with the campus police, now looking completely discombobulated. Henry ignored that and kept his attention completely on Kuryakin. 

The Russian was looking slightly lost, as if he didn't know where to turn. 

"I'm Jack Henry, sir, from the Chicago office." 

Kuryakin started at the sound of his voice. Henry put a steadying hand on his arm, and could feel the tremors running through him. Looking closer, he could see Kuryakin's pupils had dilated, leaving his eyes looking listless and dead. A thin sheen of sweat had formed on his forehead. 

Jack Henry had seen the symptoms of shock enough times that he could recognize them, though he wouldn't have expected to see them in an experienced Enforcement agent like Kuryakin. But then again, Kuryakin looked thin and worn, and he had a right not to expect trouble now that he was out of the game. 

Henry took Kuryakin by the elbow and led him down the hallway, away from everyone else. That Kuryakin followed him without question was confirmation enough that he had slipped into shock. He had Kuryakin sit down and drop his head, then pulled off his own jacket and wrapped it around the other man. 

They sat there for a few minutes, Henry keeping what he hoped was a comforting hand on Kuryakin's arm. Eventually, he felt the tremors in Kuryakin's arm subside completely, then the older man leaned his head against the wall and closed his eyes. 

When he opened them again, it was obvious that he was himself again. 

"Thank you, Mr. Henry." Kuryakin's voice was matter of fact. "I'm quite all right." 

"Call me Jack." 

"Call me Illya." Kuryakin stood, and Henry followed him. 

"Can you tell me what happened, Mr. Kuryakin?" Kuryakin frowned. "Illya," Henry corrected himself. 

Kuryakin proceeded to relate his tale of how he had come to end up in a basement with a dead Thrush agent and an angry university president. 

Henry couldn't help but whistle. 

"Does this sort of thing happen to you a lot?" he asked. 

Kuryakin's mouth twisted slightly. 

"It happens more than I like. Napoleon has always had more raw luck than me." A look passed over his face that Henry found absolutely unreadable. Struck by a sudden curiosity, Henry opened his mouth to ask a question, but closed it just as quickly when he realized what he had nearly done. His action had not gone unnoticed by Kuryakin, however. 

"I suppose you want to know why I quit." 

"Mark warned me not to ask you." 

"Mark Slate is a wise man." 

Henry knew enough not to press further. 

"Are you ready to handle this?" Henry gestured at the cluster of people down the hall whose voices were still raised in discontent. Kuryakin gave a shrug in answer. 

"No time like the present." 

They strode forward to meet the lions of academia together.  
  


In the end, it wasn't easy. William Andersen had wanted nothing better than to see Illya Kuryakin behind bars, though he appeared more upset that his new physics professor had missed several faculty meetings than that he'd killed a man on campus. When Henry had explained that the dead man was part of an international criminal conspiracy, and that Kuryakin was a hero for neutralizing him, the man had calmed down. Somewhat. Henry feared that Kuryakin was still in for a tough time, however. Andersen's pedantic soul seemed to instinctively know when he was facing a rule breaker, and even in the freewheeling world of U.N.C.L.E., Illya Kuryakin had been a rule breaker. 

When president and police had safely been sent off, after having been sworn to secrecy, and Nick and Janice had been left to deal with the disposal of the body, Henry found himself left with one very tired Russian. 

"Can I take you to a hotel?" he asked. 

Illya shook his head. 

"That won't be necessary." He put his hand in his pocket and pulled out a single key with a paper tag tied to it with twine. "I have a house rented." He squinted nearsightedly at the writing scribbled on the tag. "Though I have to admit that I have no idea where it is." 

Henry took the key from Kuryakin and read the address on the tag: 223 South Mills Street. 

"I'm sure we can find it easily enough." He pulled out his communicator. "Open Channel D." 

Within minutes, the Chicago office had the directions to Illya Kuryakin's new home, which turned out to be mere blocks from where they were. Henry bundled Kuryakin into his car and made the short drive. South Mills was a quiet, leafy street just south of the main campus area; 223 was a neat bungalow with a small yard and a slightly overgrown garden. 

Kuryakin let them into the house with his key. They entered into a living room filled with functional furniture, but otherwise devoid of personality. 

Henry moved ahead of Kuryakin, unholstering his gun. "I should make sure you have no unexpected visitors." 

"I'm quite sure that Mr. Vatanen was working alone, but if it will make you feel betterÖ" Illya gestured down the hall. 

Henry did a sweep of the whole house. There were no Thrush lurking in the cramped basement, nor loitering in the pantry. He returned to the living room to find Kuryakin sitting on the edge of the sofa. 

"I trust you found no enemy agents." 

"No." Henry shook his head. "Nothing at all." 

"Good." Illya paused before speaking again. "I'm afraid I have imposed on you too much, but I was wondering if I could impose a little more." 

"Of course," Henry said. He was not about to refuse a living legend a simple request. 

"I stole a car from a farm nearly an hour north of Chicago. Could you return the car and retrieve the one I rented." Kuryakin looked around the bare house with a slightly lost expression. "I'm afraid all my possessions were in that car." 

"I'll send Janice as soon as she is done at the university." 

"Thank you, Jack." 

Illya sat further back on the couch and looked a little embarrassed. 

"There's one more favour I'd like to ask." 

"That is?" Jack got the distinct impression that this was going to be more than simply asking him to pick up an abandoned car. 

"Could you not include this incident in your official reports?" Illya looked only slightly more hopeful than a Christian facing one of Nero's lions. 

Jack managed, with difficulty, to keep from laughing. 

"Mr. Waverly has already informed me that this mission is not to be mentioned. Anywhere. Nick and Janice have been ordered to maintain silence as well." 

"Waverly," Kuryakin said in surprise. "Waverly knows?" 

"He is my superior, after all. I contacted him on the flight up here. I believe his exact words were, ëImpress upon Mr. Kuryakin that he is not to get in trouble again.'" 

Kuryakin laughed at that. "That does sound like Waverly." 

"Doesn't it." 

Henry looked around the room. It was neither unfriendly, nor inviting. It simply was. He thought about how he would feel if he were left here alone after an attempt on his life and he didn't like the answer. 

"Would you," Henry began, then paused. How did you ask a senior enforcement agent, or even a former enforcement agent, if he wanted company? He shrugged his shoulders and forged ahead. "Would you like me to stay until Janice brings back your car?" 

Kuryakin's eyes sparked with irritation. "I don't need a babysitter." 

"Not a babysitter. Just a friendly face." 

He could see Kuryakin deliberately force himself to relax. 

"I'm sorry," he said, shaking his head. "I didn't mean to be impolite. But I'm tired and sore and I would really prefer to be alone." 

Henry nodded in agreement, then handed Kuryakin his business card. 

"If you need anything, call the Chicago office. They'll be able to get in touch with me. I'll be in town till later this afternoon. I suspect that Madison's finest will need a little cajoling from the Command to overlook your adventure." 

"You have a talent for understatement." 

"That's why they made me a CEA." 

"Is that the qualification now?" 

Henry laughed. 

"Goodbye, Illya. Call if you need anything. Or if any more of our Thrush friends make an appearance. 

Henry saw himself out and got in his car. He looked back at the house for a second before turning the key in the ignition. Like the man within it, the house looked more than a little vulnerable. He wondered for a brief second if he should disregard Kuryakin's request and stand guard out here. 

But that was ridiculous. Though he wasn't in U.N.C.L.E. any longer, Kuryakin was far from helpless. He had managed to kill Vatanen without their intervention, without a weapon. He was more than capable of looking after himself. 

With one final look at the house, Henry pulled into the street. 

* * *

Illya watched from the corner of his front window as Jack Henry drove away. He appreciated the offer of company from the Chicago CEA, but he wanted no more reminders of U.N.C.L.E., of the job and friends he was leaving behind. He wanted no temptation to return to his old life. 

Turning, he moved through the house, to the small bedroom at the back. The only furniture in the room was a bed and a shabby dresser, but it was enough. 

He kicked off his shoes, threw his shirt on the floor--Napoleon would be appalled at the ill treatment of his clothes, but Napoleon would never know--and collapsed onto the bare mattress, waiting for sleep to come. 

But it wouldn't. 

In spite of his exhaustion, in spite of the fact that it had been over twenty-four hours since he'd last closed his eyes, he remained wide awake, staring at the cracks in the ceiling. He almost, but not quite, regretted sending Jack Henry away, but it was not his companionship he craved. 

He clenched his eyes tightly shut and willed his body to sleep, but instead of darkness he saw an unending stream of faces: people he'd killed, people who'd tried to kill him, people he'd seen killed. It seemed that his entire life had been touched by death. 

And going forward? What would the future bring? Would he be allowed to live in peace now that death was no longer a part of his job description, or would he face even more men and women like Tyko Vatanen, seeking vengeance upon him for the death he had wrought? 

He thought briefly about calling Mark again. Or April. It had been ridiculously good to hear Mark's voice. But that was folly and he knew it even as the thought formed. He needed to make a clean break, to begin to forge a new life here. And it was not Mark or April who he really wanted to talk to. It was Napoleon. 

He wished he could talk to Napoleon for just one minute, less even. He toyed with pretending to be a wrong number just so he could hear his partner's voice, but that was a foolish plan. Napoleon would suspect it wasn't just a random wrong number, would trace the call, would track him down. He couldn't allow that. He suspected that his will power did not extend to walking away from Napoleon Solo twice in one lifetime. 

He turned onto his side and drew his knees up to his chest. 

As sleep claimed him at last, he hoped that at the very least he would be allowed some measure of peace in his new life.

**Author's Note:**

> Previously published in Relative Secrecy 7.


End file.
